Page 31 of The Dixon Rule

“Hello,” I say, my smile faltering.

“Sure.”

I don’t know if “sure” is better than “yeah, okay,” but it sort of feels like it’s a rung lower on the greeting ladder.

“Priya, right?” I reintroduce myself. “Shane.”

“I remember your name. I don’t forget names.”

“Right, you must be good at that. Keeping track of all those clients. Diana mentioned you were a counselor or something?”

“I’m a psychotherapist.”

“That’s really cool. Did you go to school for that?” It’s the dumbest question I could have asked, but she’s making me uncomfortable with those sullen eyes and the frown marring her lips.

“I chose to go the psychotherapy route, but I have both an MD in psychiatry and a PhD in psychology.” She spares me a disparaging look before turning to unlock her mailbox. “From Harvard.”

“Wow.” I’m suitably impressed.

“I know, right? Isn’t it astonishing that women can be doctors in the twenty-first century? That our worth is no longer tied to the way men treat us?”

I blink.

She’s smiling sweetly at me.

I have no idea what the fuck is going on.

So I keep a pleasant expression plastered on my face and say, “Definitely. Five gold stars for women’s liberation.”

Her eyes narrow. Jesus. Those eyes. Dark as coal. “Are you mocking the feminist movement?”

“Not at all. I think it’s great.” I hastily tuck my mail under my arm. “Okay, I have to go now.”

I hurry out of the vestibule, feeling Priya’s gaze piercing into my back.

What the hell is the matter with these people? None of them threw a welcome parade for me, but I assumed that’s because they didn’t like the idea of a college guy moving into a complex full of couples and families. But there’s a large number of singles in Meadow Hill too, and nearly all the ones I’ve run into today have acted like total dickheads.

It isn’t until I go outside for a swim a couple of hours later that I finally encounter a friendly face, belonging to a woman in her early fifties who’s leaving the pool area as I’m entering. I’ve seen her hanging out at the pool before, but this is the first time she’s stopped to chat. Before now, she seemed content to ogle me from behind her book while I pretended not to notice.

“Hello! It’s Shane, right?” She has dyed-red hair, very tanned skin, and, unlike everyone else in this goddamn place today, is sporting an actual smile.

“Yup. That’s me.” I extend a hand to her. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Veronika. Cherry Blossom, 1A.”

Her hand lingers a little too long, until I’m forced to wrench mine away. I use the pretense of needing to pull my phone out of my pocket, but that simply draws her attention to the phone and gives her the wrong idea.

“Yes, good call, we should exchange numbers!” Veronika sounds delighted. She has one of those raspy voices that tells me she probably smoked two packs a day in her youth. Maybe still does. “It’s always smart to have a neighbor’s contact info. Would you like me to add you to our Meadow Hill group chat?”

There’s a group chat?

Fuckin’ Dixon. I bet she’s been scheming to keep me off it.

“I’d love that,” I tell Veronika, flashing her my dimples.

She giggles like a schoolgirl. We exchange numbers, and she saunters off with the exaggerated sway of her hips.

I’m pretty sure that lady wants to bone me.

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